


Your Mouth is a Gun

by knucklewhite



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, First Time, M/M, Mouth Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2015-03-20
Packaged: 2018-03-18 08:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3562604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knucklewhite/pseuds/knucklewhite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim Gordon’s mouth, Harvey thinks, oughta be registered as a lethal weapon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Mouth is a Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to the amazing [callay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/callay/pseuds/callay) for cheerleading and inspiration [above and beyond](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3213245) the call of duty. (Seriously, do go read that! This fic kinda works as a Bullock/Gordon 'Alley Blow Jobs' companion to hers. :D)

Jim Gordon’s mouth, Harvey thinks, oughta be registered as a lethal weapon.

The kid’s still swinging as Harvey drags him out into the back alley behind Mulligans. The steel door slams shut behind them, muffling the noise of a bar crammed wall-to-wall with off-duty cops who hadn’t taken kindly to Jim’s drunken monologue. Harvey liked this place, dammit. He and Dix used to drink here back in the bad old days. The leather stool, third from the left, practically has an imprint of Harvey’s ass from all the years he’s spent mooching on it, and now some other sap’ll inherit that prime spot, because Harvey might never be able to set foot in Mulligans again. Not with this particular partner in tow, anyway.

Jim Gordon’s mouth is going to get Harvey killed one of these days.

“Take it easy,” Harvey says, digging his fingers into the meat of Jim’s bicep. He gives a shove that sends Jim stumbling through a puddle and up against the wall at the opposite side of the alley. “Easy now, soldier boy.”

It takes Jim more than a few moments to right himself against the wall and turn around. It’s the first time Harvey’s seen Jim drunk, really drunk, and it stands to reason that damn mouth of his would be 200% more lethal than it is when Jim’s sober—intoxicated and in charge of firearms and all that.

Harvey’s not exactly the picture of abstinence himself right now, but he’d nursed his drinks all night, some sixth sense nagging at him to keep hold of his wits, keep an eye on his partner in the midst of all those clenched jaws and sidelong scowls directed Jim’s way. Harvey might not often be _in_ the right these days, but he’s usually _right_ , and tonight’s no exception.

“Thanks for the support,” Jim says, rubbing his knuckles across his open mouth. His fingers come away stained red. He’s lost his jacket somewhere in the fray, and his shirt has a ketchup splat of blood across the chest, right over his heart. His breath chuffs white in the night air like the bull-headed asshole he is.

“This _is_ support, asshole,” Harvey says, congratulating himself on not including the ‘bull-headed’ bit. “This is me making sure you don’t get us killed next time we call for backup and it decides to take its own sweet time moseying on over. You can thank me when you’ve sobered up.”

Jim bares his teeth; they’re stained red, too. “They’re all on the take, all of them. Sitting there, smirking, lining their pockets with blood money while this city rots from the inside out.”

Harvey sighs. What can he say? The son of a bitch ain’t wrong. That’s why a good two-thirds of the G.C.P.D. hate Jim Gordon so much, and that’s a conservative estimate. Nobody wants to look at their reflection under a bright light—it just ain’t flattering. Much better to smash the light instead, and, Christ knows, Harvey’s wanted to smash that pretty-boy face enough times.

“How can you stand it?” Jim says.

Harvey takes a deep breath, sucking the aroma of the city into his lungs: car exhaust fumes, the sickly-sweet stench of the nut cart on the corner, the ripe dumpster behind them. He juts his chin at Jim. “I can stand it because, frankly, I like standing, kid. Y’know, as opposed to lying in some god-forsaken alley in a puddle of my own blood.”

But, as he says it, Harvey can’t help getting a flash of the Wayne murder scene: an alley much like this, the wife’s pearls scattered like punched-out teeth, a white sheet with a blot of red blooming on its surface. His eyes flick down to the splash of red on Jim’s shirt and then up to Jim’s mouth where it glints blood-wet in the streetlight. Jim’s bottom lip’s busted up pretty bad where it got mashed between his teeth and Garza’s fist. That mouth is still freakin’ lethal, though, Harvey thinks, and tries to ignore the little voice that whispers and _in more ways than one_.

That little voice has been getting louder lately, taking notes on every aspect of Jim Gordon’s person like some out-of-control court stenographer, transcribing a case Harvey doesn’t even want to begin to examine.

Jim slumps against the wall, chest heaving with unspent adrenaline. “You—You’re as bad as the rest of them.”

Yeah, maybe Harvey is. But three weeks ago he’d have stalked back into the bar and onto his comfortable stool, downed a few Jamesons to mute what was left of his conscience. Instead, Jim’s words sit sickly in Harvey’s gut. Jim’s righteousness is infectious. A disease. And Harvey’s as pissed as any unsuspecting victim of a careless host might be.

“Worse, even,” Jim continues.

“Screw you, you little prick,” Harvey growls, stepping through the puddle and across the alley until he’s right up in Jim’s face. He pokes a finger into Jim’s chest, hard, right on the blood-splatter bullseye. “You swan in here, all holier-than-thou with your righteous ideals. Just you wait—you freakin’ wait ’til you’ve been kicked back at every turn. I give you a year, tops, boy scout, a year until you’re sucked dry by this parasite of a city, until even your filthy-rich girlfriend won’t recog—”

Jim’s fist takes Harvey in the jaw.

The punch is as sloppy and booze-addled as Jim is, so Harvey doesn’t see stars—just the streetlight above as the blow sends him spinning back into the puddle, soaking his socks.

He whirls back around and shoves Jim against the wall, gets two fistfuls of Jim’s shirt.

It doesn’t take much to pin the kid. Harvey’s pragmatic enough to know that Jim could easily take him—he’s seen Jim fight, fluid and lethal; he’s taken note of all those muscles that bunch up and pull Jim’s shirts tight across his back—but the booze has dulled Jim’s edges and Harvey has the weight of years. He’s restrained more suspects than Jim’s had those frothy, fancy coffees he likes so much. (Harvey takes his coffee strong and black, thanks, like the Italians; only a complete jackass has milk in his coffee after 11am.)

He contemplates raising his fist and giving it back with interest, but the anger’s drained away like Jim knocked a hole in it with his punch. Harvey settles for digging his knuckles into Jim’s collarbone—and, okay, maybe he does grind his fists in a bit harder as recompense for the throbbing in his jaw.

“You can have that one for free,” Harvey says. “It’s been a tough week. I should’ve known better than to cut you loose in Mulligans with half the precinct giving you the stink-eye.”

“Get the hell off me.” Jim bucks under Harvey’s hands.

“Relax, hotshot. I’m on your side.”

Jim’s laugh is choked. “Are you?”

“Christ on a bike, how many more— Listen, you can choose your friends, but your partner is just a fact of friggin’ nature, no matter how much of a self-righteous little asshat he is.”

“I oughta go back in there and—”

“The only thing you ought to do,” Harvey says, pressing Jim harder into the wall, “is shut your damn trap for once.”

Jim meets Harvey’s eyes. “Make me.”

The streetlight casts a sodium-yellow glow across the planes of Jim’s face. The look in his eyes is strange, defiant. Add that crazy glint in his glare to the blood on his mouth, and, well, the sum makes Harvey actually contemplate taking a step back for a moment.

He covers his hesitation with a huffed laugh. “I know you’re spoiling, kid, but I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Come on,” Jim says, his mouth twisting into a sneer. “Shut me up. I want you to, come on.” He licks his lips, tongue pausing to probe at the cut on his bottom lip. His chest rises and falls under Harvey’s fists where they’re clenched in Jim’s shirt-front.

Harvey licks his lips in turn, an unconscious echo. “Christ, what’s with you tonight? You get what little sense you own knocked out of you back there?”

“Yeah, guess so,” Jim says, and grins, actually grins, his teeth flashing bloody.

Harvey’s feeling dizzier from Jim’s mood swings than he is from any punch to the jaw. He can feel the situation slip-sliding out from under him like it’s coated in ice. As if to confirm that fact, Jim bucks against his grip again, and this time Harvey’s forced to push his thigh between Jim’s legs to pin him to the wall. He presses in with his hip to hold Jim still, and the low noise Jim lets out hits Harvey somewhere under the belt.

Aw, hell, was that really a moan?

Jim’s eyes flutter shut. He cants his hips forward. There’s a hardness against Harvey’s thigh that definitely isn’t any gun.

Harvey’s never been one to throw caution to the wind. He likes taking his time. He likes casing situations. He likes a full and complete array of backup behind him, because, in Gotham, situations have a habit of nose-diving into a flaming ball of crap before you’ve even had time to open the morning papers. The only spice Harvey likes in his life is the spice in his lunchtime burrito.

So, in case he’s reading this wrong, he lets all of his weight settle on Jim, gives an experimental little shove with his thigh. Jim’s mouth drops open, and yeah—yeah, that’s very definitely a moan.

Adrenaline floods through Harvey like he’s been flipped over and set down backwards, and even if he hadn’t already been teetering on the edge of sobriety after the ruckus in the bar, hearing a noise like that coming out of Jim Gordon’s mouth burns through any remaining whiskey-induced glow. The awareness of how close they are surges through Harvey’s body: the hot line of Jim up against him, the warmth of Jim’s breath on his face.

Jim opens his eyes again, studying Harvey with a gaze that looks almost black in this low light, and then—perhaps seeing some flashing signal that gives him the go-ahead, who the hell knows?—he shifts again, a deliberate grind of his hips against Harvey’s thigh, and, goddamn, Harvey’s cock starts filling whether he wants it to or not.

“Christ,” Harvey breathes, unable to stop himself pressing in. “What are you—”

“Are you gonna shut me up or what?”

“Jim, if I’m reading this wrong…”

Jim rolls his eyes like the dramatic little shit he is and surges forward to push his mouth to Harvey’s. Kid’s always gotta take the bull by the horns, Harvey thinks, wildly.

The kiss is messy and wet and undignified—a clash of teeth and a metallic tang from the blood in Jim’s mouth, beer on his breath, more fighting than kissing. One of Jim’s hands comes up to bury itself in Harvey’s hair. Jim twists his fingers, tugs, and this time the moan is coming from Harvey’s mouth as his head is pulled back; he can’t contain it. His fists stay knotted in Jim’s shirt as Jim bites at his bottom lip and then pushes in slick with his tongue, thrusting, as downright bossy as Harvey had imagined he’d be.

(Because of course Harvey’s thought about this, about Jim like this. Jeez, just look at the guy. Harvey’s got blood in his veins, don’t he?)

Jim rears back with a laugh, eyes glittering dangerously. His hands slip down and around to palm Harvey’s ass through his pants, to grip and pull, so that Harvey’s forced to grind up against Jim’s thigh. Harvey’s completely hard now, straining against his pants, and the friction zings up his spine. But he pulls back reluctantly, releasing one finger at a time and disentangling his hands from their death grip on Jim’s shirt. There’s a whole bar full of cops that could come tumbling out of that door behind them at any moment, and he and Jim probably don’t want to get caught humping against a wall like a couple of horny teenagers.

Jim licks his lips again, raises his eyebrows, and hell if he don’t look the very picture of rough trade—his shirt all rumpled and bloody, his tie knotted loose and dangling, a bruise starting to bloom across his left cheekbone.

Harvey presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, tries to quell the laugh of disbelief that wants to bubble up out of him.

Well, hell.

He says it out loud, the filter between his brain and mouth apparently knocked loose by Jim Gordon’s tongue: “Well, hell.” He jerks his head at the back door of Mulligans. “We can’t do this here. Half the precinct’s behind that door and they all hate your guts, no offense.”

“Screw ‘em,” Jim says.

“Oh, really? I thought the objective here was to screw you?” And, that’s it, it’s out of his mouth. This is happening. Harvey’s slipping along that ice and nothing’s gonna stop this momentum now. Everyone knows that stomping on the brakes only sends you spinning even further out of control, right? Right.

“Yeah, Harvey, that’s the plan. You need me to draw you a diagram?”

“You keep talking the talk, but I don’t see any walking happening here.”

Jim grins again, teeth glinting in the glare of the streetlight. He grips Harvey by the wrist. “C’mon then,” he says, as he slides away from the wall and tugs Harvey along behind him.

Harvey purses his lips, because suddenly Jim seems a whole lot less drunk than he was ten minutes ago, like he shucked off the alcohol with all of his restraint.

There’s a side alley and an empty lot a few steps away, and Jim tugs Harvey around the corner and shoves him up against the chain-link fence there.

“Pushy, ain’t you?” Harvey says.

“Well, someone dragged me away from what would have been a perfectly satisfying fight.”

“C’mon, you were getting your ass kicked and you know it.”

“Ever heard of catharsis, Harvey?”

“Cath who?”

“Catharsis,” Jim says—leans in, in fact, and breathes the word into the skin of Harvey’s neck. Harvey threads his fingers through the fence behind him and grips the mesh to stop himself doing something stupid, like reaching up and stroking his fingers through Jim’s hair, all affectionate. Jim continues, “Imagine you’re holding one of the juiciest, tastiest hot dogs in all of Gotham, one of those dirty water dogs that just bursts open in your mouth, and then you trip and drop it in the gutter.”

“A goddamn tragedy,” Harvey says. He arches his neck to give Jim better access. Jim’s lips trail a wet line along the slope of Harvey’s throat, just under his beard. Harvey shudders.

“You’d have been denied your catharsis, my friend.” Jim’s tongue flicks against Harvey’s neck. Harvey feels the graze of teeth.

“Uh,” Harvey groans, “okay, sure, whatever, catharsis. So, what we gotta do to get you yours?”

Even in the semi-darkness of the alley he can see the shape of Jim’s smirk. Jim’s hands linger at Harvey’s hips for a moment, and then he drops to his knees in front of Harvey with a crunch of gravel. He leans in and runs his cheek over Harvey’s erection where it juts against the fabric of Harvey’s pants. Harvey’s breath comes faster; the fence creaks under the pressure of his grip.

“ _Christ_ ,” Harvey says hoarsely, as Jim pulls back and his hands come up to work at Harvey’s zipper.

It’s darker than Harvey would like. If this is really, really going to happen, Harvey wants to see it spotlit and in full Technicolor, flattering lighting be damned. Gotham has other ideas, though, and maybe it’s for the best—keep the whole thing booze-blurred and shadow-edged, and maybe they can pass this off as a moment of madness. Maybe this won’t throw a wrench into the guts of the best partnership Harvey’s ever had.

The best, Harvey thinks, and swallows at the sensation of Jim tugging his pants down around his thighs. His cock bobs free, and, yeah, that’s it now—everything’s out in the open. The night air is cold against his exposed cock. No going back.

Jim looks almost sleepy, eyelids at half-mast, as he ducks his head and nuzzles against Harvey’s bare cock like some big cat, breath hot and damp. Oh, and ain’t that a picture. Never mind the whiskey shots, Harvey feels drunk at the sight of his cock glistening against the skin of Jim’s cheek—that particular sort of dizzy-drunk where the universe is on a two-second delay. He’s tempted to unclench his hands from the fence and frame the image with his fingers, burn it into his brain, in case whatever’s happening here is a one-time deal, in case Jim comes to his senses in the morning. Instead, Harvey thrusts his hips slowly, watching the wetness already gathering at the head of his cock smear on Jim’s skin. Jim’s mouth is so close; his mouth is right there, wet and open. A shift of Harvey’s hips and he could be deep in all that warmth. Those lips. That mouth.

Harvey’s fingers twitch on the fence. He makes a needy noise he’s sure he’ll live to remember for all of his days. “C’mon then, jackass,” he groans. “We don’t got all night.”

Jim snorts, and then—slowly, deliberately—opens his mouth and closes the wet heat of it around the head of Harvey’s cock, angling to keep eye contact all the while. Harvey’s breath leaves him in one long exhale. He can hardly bring himself to watch for fear of going off like a bottle-rocket, but he doesn’t want to miss a bit of this—not a second of the sight of his cock disappearing into that sweet mouth.

He’s barely got a moment to pull himself together before Jim’s hooking fingers behind Harvey’s thighs and going for it, pulling no punches, barrelling right in, in this as in everything. No waiting. No backup. Go, go, go.

The fence jangles as Harvey thumps his head back against it and lets the tide of pleasure swallow him up.

“Jim, fuck,” he moans. “ _Jim._ ”

In answer, Jim’s right hand comes up and grips Harvey’s cock at the base, and then he pulls away with a wet noise, trailing his tongue along the underside of Harvey’s cock as he goes. For a moment—a freaky-good, spank-bank-award-winning moment—a glistening string of spit connects the head of Harvey’s cock to the tip of Jim’s tongue. Somehow the sight of it clinches this whole nutso dealio for Harvey. It’s pointless to ignore this damn chattering voice in his head now, the voice that takes such delight in noticing the way Jim’s personal bubble happily interlocks with his own, the way they sit pressed thigh-to-thigh on each other’s desks, all those casual touches and bumps. Screw it all to hell. Harvey might as well follow Jim into the fray and incriminate himself fully.

So, as Jim starts jacking and blowing him at the same time, Harvey unclenches his fingers from the fence and brings them up to run them over Jim’s head—and, sure, okay, it’s affectionate. Jim’s short hair is soft against his palms, parts under his fingers like fur. He cups the back of Jim’s skull, and Jim makes a muffled noise of encouragement.

“Yeah,” Harvey says, mouth working on auto-pilot. “That’s so fuckin’ sweet. Take it good. You like this, boy scout?”

The vibration of Jim’s moan around his cock makes Harvey’s toes twitch. There’s a couple of moments of delicious, extra-sloppy enthusiasm, and then Jim’s pulling back and away from him again. Harvey’s cock pops free from Jim’s mouth, steaming in the chill night air. He looks down, worried his yapping has gone too far, but Jim’s just working at his own zipper, fumbling to get his cock free and get a saliva-wet hand on himself.

“Keep talking, asshole,” Jim says in a voice as rough as the gravel under his knees, before swallowing Harvey’s cock back down again.

That fuckin’ weapon of a mouth. Harvey can only dig his teeth into his bottom lip and jerk his hips helplessly while Jim works him over. All the while Jim’s tugging at his own cock, hand flashing white against his dark pants, cock flushed and leaking between his fingers.

“Fuck,” Harvey growls, “you love this, don’t you? It’s about time I put something in that pretty trap of yours to shut it up.”

Too far? Naw. Jim’s groaning and pushing into Harvey, opening up his throat as if he wants to take as much of Harvey’s cock as possible. His hand is a blur as he jerks himself off. Jim’s pleasure—his pleasure at _pleasuring Harvey_ —makes something twist in the pit of Harvey’s gut, fans the sparks of his need into something almost too hot to handle, a just-fired bullet shell juggled between both hands. He buries his fingers in Jim’s hair again, rubs his palms over the soft bristles, digs his blunt nails into the skin of Jim’s scalp. He gives an experimental tug-and-thrust, and Jim’s moan is better than all the pastries at Milo’s Greek Bakery combined—yeah, even the potato and spinach ones with the filo pastry that melts in your mouth.

“Christ, you’re perfect,” Harvey says, and his mouth is running of its own accord, spilling out all the filthy thoughts he’s been plagued with since Jim freakin’ Gordon got foisted on him. “That ripe fuckin’ mouth of yours. Look at you now, hotshot. On your knees in the dirt, taking my dick like a pro. Fuck, your mouth—can’t stop thinkin’ about that mouth.”

Harvey’s distantly aware that his own mouth is a weapon now; he’s turning the damn thing on himself, and the safety is off.

“All those damn nights on stakeouts, all those late nights… All I wanted to do was lean over and taste you. Just wait, just wait—gonna slick you up good, beautiful—” Harvey tightens his fingers on Jim's skull, can't help the jerky stutter of his hips as he fucks Jim's face, thrusts into the wet heat of Jim’s mouth. “Ngh. Gonna open you up _so sweet_ , hotshot. Gonna fill you—”

But Jim has rocked back onto his heels, breath leaving him like a punch. “Holy shit,” Jim groans, and then he's locking eyes with Harvey and spurting over his hand, over his lap, over Harvey’s good Friday-night pants.

Normally Harvey would complain about the dry-cleaning bill, but this is freakin’ art, is what it is: Jim’s cock still jutting and flushed, come glistening on his knuckles, his eyelashes casting long shadows across his cheekbones. Never mind his own release, Harvey feels like he just got granted a private viewing to the damn Mona Lisa.

Never one to miss an opportunity, Harvey gets a hand on himself and starts tugging, raking his eyes up and down Jim—on his knees, glistening with sweat, come-splattered—and attempting to catalogue all the details for future recall like he’s at a freakin’ crime scene and the Captain’s gonna give him the twenty questions treatment on it later. His dick is still slick with Jim’s saliva. Hot damn, he’s gonna contaminate this evidence so good—

“Wait,” Jim pants. “Wait, let me.” He knocks Harvey’s hand away, gets a sticky-fingered grip on Harvey’s cock and starts jacking.

Harvey’s been about ready to blow the moment Jim thudded to his knees at his feet, mouth slack with promise. The feeling of Jim’s slick hand moving on him is worth the loss of any number of best seats in the house, maybe even worth the loss of this partnership. It’s only Harvey’s natural tendency to eke the most out of every pleasure that makes him try to prolong this. It all proves to be in vain, though, when Jim parts his lips and lets the thrust connect with his tongue. Harvey’s done for. He can’t help getting his hands in Jim’s hair again, petting helplessly as Jim laps at the head of his cock. Jim moans like he hasn’t just ruined Harvey’s best pants only moments before, like he can’t get enough of Harvey’s dick, and carries on jacking Harvey into his open mouth. Yeah, there’s no prolonging this experience under the force of that visual.

“Fuck. Oh, fuck.” Harvey’s orgasm hits him like a gunshot. He clenches his fingers in Jim’s hair and grunts as he comes in Jim’s mouth—thick stripes on Jim’s waiting tongue, across his too-red lips, down his chin, even. Jim takes it all.

After he’s come down from the clouds, Harvey feels like he just ran a ten-block foot chase. Uphill. His hand on Jim’s head is just about the only thing stopping him from sliding bonelessly down the fence and into a puddle on the gravel. Jim’s panting almost as hard, chest heaving under his sweat-damp shirt as he licks at the cut on his lip; it’s opened up, and fuck, that has to sting. From the looks of him, he might just as well have gone a few rounds with a bar full of cops.

He’s a mess. A friggin’ beautiful mess. Harvey feels a tiny burst of pride at his handiwork. Still…

“Sorry, pal,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—” His hand is still resting in Jim’s hair, so he can feel the vibration of Jim’s snort.

“I damn well hope you meant to,” Jim says. “I mean, I know you’re a shitty shot, but I didn’t think you were quite that bad.”

That hand in Jim’s hair slides down to cup Jim’s cheek where his skin feels flushed and warm. Harvey knows he’s pushing this good thing, but he lets his thumb linger at the edge of Jim’s mouth anyway, rubs small circles in the tacky wetness ( _your freakin’ jizz_ , his brain supplies helpfully) gathered there. Jim’s mouth slips open, an invitation, and Harvey pushes in with his thumb. And, Jesus, that spark in his gut glows and threatens to rekindle as Jim turns to suck on his thumb. Jim’s obviously infected Harvey with his special brand of nuthouse crazy.

“So,” Harvey says, trying to tamp down the flutter in his gut, “you feel properly cath-whatsit?”

Jim bites at Harvey’s thumb and lets it go. “Yeah, I got mine.” He holds out a hand. “Come on, help me up, old man. My knees are dying here.”

“You gonna let me zip up or what?” Harvey tugs up his pants, buckles his belt, feeling Jim's gaze on him like a physical weight. “Jim, I gotta know,” he says, as he grips Jim’s hand and pulls him to his feet. “Is this a one-time deal? Just say the word and we can go back to business-as-usual. I get it, alright.”

Jim dusts down his knees, fingers his busted lip with a wince, and then casts an amused look Harvey’s way. “Depends how many fights you intend to drag me away from in the future.”

Harvey scoffs. “Do I do anything _but_ drag you away from fights, soldier boy?”

And sure, it’s dark in the alley, but Jim’s grin is brighter than the midday sun over Gotham bay, the kind of light that sparks off every surface and makes you squint.

Yeah, Jim Gordon’s mouth really is going to be the death of Harvey.


End file.
